I'm merely a man and that's my foible.
I can't hand-pick you the stars when night just ripe
and the paleness of dusk suffocate me to sleep.

I wish I could plump pillows the dreams that fill eyes
that rich blade of brown;
or unpick wounds from the skin
you've learned to wire your bones against.
I can't will fields to gold
all I can promise is the folly of a laborious heart.

I want to see as your hair leans grey,
so I can pluck our beginnings from the roots.

Every strand holds a story,
you swear lust a madman's muse;
but love can weld your thoughts and nerves apart
and leave you falling from the bridge
you once lulled your ribcage across.

I can't plug this ache with torn pieces of your tongue,
every-moon I resurrect your flesh in my room
and watch as the ashes leap from the roof.  
​